‘I’m sorry, Cafaro. What with everything going on, it slipped my mind. I apologise, I should have let you know.’
Cafaro surprised Scamarcio by brushing the apology away and saying, ‘OK. I’m going to need to inform a load of people. Are there any suspects? Does it link back to Borghese?’
‘I’m working on the assumption that it does, but I have no factual evidence to back that up yet.’ Scamarcio told him about the scarce CCTV. ‘I’ll need to talk to those priests again, and I’ll need to speak with Cardinal Amato once more.’
Cafaro moved a palm across his eyelids and sighed. ‘What a mess.’
‘It gets worse. Meinero used a fake ID in Amato’s name to check into the hotel.’
Cafaro frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘I’ve no idea, but it points to another connection between the two of them.’
Cafaro fell silent for a moment. ‘You’re not saying …’
Scamarcio scratched his temple, ‘No, I wasn’t … I mean, I hadn’t arrived at that conclusion.’ He wondered why Cafaro had got there so quickly.
Cafaro smoothed his sharp chin. ‘You know, some of these priests … Well, let’s just say that on occasion I’ve had to deal with the odd situation that, if made public, would be pretty uncomfortable for the church.’
‘Hmm.’ Scamarcio rooted around in his jacket pocket for his fags. He knew that the less he said, the higher the chances that Cafaro would continue.
‘There are certain places in this city a few of our priests like to frequent. Well, once or twice there have been incidents — incidents that were best kept quiet.’
‘Criminal?’
Cafaro turned his hand in the air, indicating ‘half and half’.
‘You’re not saying Cardinal Amato was part of the sauna scene?’
Cafaro looked shocked. ‘Oh no, I wasn’t saying that at all. Not the cardinal, but …’
‘Our dead priest?’
Cafaro steepled his fingers in front of his long nose. ‘Perhaps.’
‘You had to handle the fallout?’
Cafaro sniffed and neatened the edges on a pile of papers. ‘We need to crack on. Let me round up Amato’s assistants. It’ll take me a few minutes.’ He gestured to the door behind Scamarcio. ‘If you want to grab a coffee from the machine, I’ll come get you when it’s sorted.’
Scamarcio thanked him and rose. As he was leaving, he noticed a photo of Cafaro on the wall in his official dress uniform. Standing next to him was a small dark-haired woman, who Scamarcio presumed was his wife. Two little boys were on Cafaro’s right, one of them in a wheelchair. His head was lolling back on a headrest, and Scamarcio could see that he was severely disabled.
‘Is this your family?’ Scamarcio asked, immediately regretting it, because he knew it would seem like an invasion of privacy.
But Cafaro surprised him again by saying, ‘Yes, those are my boys. We had some great news yesterday — my eldest, the one in the wheelchair, has just got the all clear from a major health scare. We thought we were in for a very rough ride, but it’s all now looking much better.’ Cafaro was smiling again.
Scamarcio felt a hard lump forming in his throat. Christ, what the hell was wrong with him?
‘I’m really pleased to hear that, Cafaro. You have a lovely family.’ He turned and hurried out of the office.
Lania, the tall blond priest from the Veneto, appeared to be in quite a state when Scamarcio entered the room in the gendarmerie quarters that Cafaro had set up for the interviews. In keeping with his shift in temperament, Cafaro had seemed content to leave Scamarcio alone with his interviewees this time. Lania was sniffing and rubbing his eyes repeatedly. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he whispered when Scamarcio took a seat across from him. ‘You didn’t know him, but he was a good man, Alberto. He had a good heart.’
‘Of course, he was a priest,’ said Scamarcio. And then kicked himself for the inanity of the remark.
‘Not all priests are good men,’ said Lania.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’m just stating a fact. We all know by now that there has been evil in the church. The Pope has admitted it.’
‘Mr Lania, do you have any idea who could have done this? Were you aware of any problems in Alberto’s life? Any difficulties of late?’
‘Chief Inspector Cafaro said Alberto was found hanging. They wanted you to think it was suicide?’
Scamarcio nodded, and the priest fell silent. After a few moments, Lania said, ‘The only real difficulty for any of us was the Borghese thing — it had us all shaken up. We’d come to care about Andrea. We wanted to see him get well.’
‘And there’s nothing else you can think of? No worries Alberto shared with you?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Alberto and I were friends, but he wouldn’t necessarily have confided in me. I think you should speak with Michele — he’s the one with curly hair you met outside the Sala Rotonda. Michele and Alberto were at the seminary together; they’ve known each other a long time. I think if anyone would know what was going on in Alberto’s life, it would be him.’
‘What’s Michele’s surname?’
‘Cogo.’
‘Would you have a number for him?’
The priest pulled out an old Nokia and began scrolling through his contacts. He showed the screen to Scamarcio, and Scamarcio took a note.
‘And what about Alberto’s relationship with Cardinal Amato? Did they get on? Were there any issues there?’
Lania pushed up his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘No. Like me, Alberto had been with the cardinal for about a year. I know he had great respect for the cardinal and his work. I’d never see them argue or anything like that.’
‘And how did Alberto seem during the sessions?’
Lania shrugged. ‘Just like the rest of us: focussed, concerned. We all wanted to do the best job we could.’
‘Do you think he believed in the work — that he really thought it had a purpose?’
Lania frowned and opened a hand. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t he have? He wouldn’t have been helping the cardinal if he didn’t.’
‘How exactly did you guys get chosen for this work?’
‘Recommendation, mainly. A lot of places for young priests in the Vatican are through recommendation.’
Scamarcio nodded. ‘And what do you think of Cardinal Amato and how he goes about his job?’
‘Like I say, we all have the utmost respect for him. I’ve never seen him do anything out of line. He cares deeply about the souls he treats.’
Scamarcio knew when he was on the road to nowhere. ‘Thank you, Father Lania. I’ll be back in touch shortly.’
Lania rose from the chair. ‘I appreciate you’re busy, but please let us know if you find out who did this. Alberto meant a lot to us.’
‘Of course,’ said Scamarcio.
Michele Cogo didn’t seem able to speak properly. The grief was tearing him apart. Scamarcio had seen many people in the early stages of grief, and, in his experience, it fell into two camps: a numb denial, which saw you slip into a kind of ghostlike autopilot, or a searing pain, which ripped you asunder. It seemed that Cogo fell into the latter category.
‘You were close?’ Scamarcio tried, when Cogo finally found some breath between sobs.
‘I’d known Alberto since I was seventeen.’
‘That’s unusual — that you both found a place at the Vatican.’
‘We were both mentored by the same priest. He got us in here,’ said Cogo absently, his mind elsewhere.
‘Michele, I know this isn’t pleasant to think about, but do you know why anyone might want Alberto dead?’
Cogo sighed and rubbed his palms across his eyes. ‘I wish I could help, but I can’t. I just can’t get my head around it. I can’t think of anyone. Everyone loved Alberto
, and I’m not just saying that. He was widely liked.’
‘And had you noticed any change in him recently?’
Cogo fell silent and studied his palms in his lap. ‘You mean a negative change?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Scamarcio quickly. ‘It could be a positive change. Just a change in the way he was, his behaviour.’
Cogo rubbed his jawline. ‘You know, we weren’t as close as we used to be. Alberto didn’t confide in me like he did when we were younger, but I have to say that he did seem really happy lately — happier than usual. As if some— … something really good had come into his life.’
Scamarcio had the distinct feeling that Cogo had been about to say ‘someone’.
14
FRUSTRATINGLY, AFTER HIS INTERVIEWS with the priests, Scamarcio was informed that Cardinal Amato was away on a two-day retreat in Umbria and could not be disturbed. If he’d had any proper hold on his prime suspect, Amato would not have been allowed to leave town. Scamarcio felt like calling Garramone to complain, then figured it would get him nowhere and he had better things to do with his limited time. He was heading over to Andrea’s third Facebook friend Tommaso Pombeni’s house in Parioli for an evening visit, when his mobile rang. ‘Scamarcio,’ he grunted, not recognising the number.
‘Detective Scamarcio, I’ve just picked up your messages. I’m sorry, I’ve been abroad on holiday and had my mobile switched off.’ It was a woman’s voice, but Scamarcio had no idea who she was.
‘Who’s speaking, please?’
‘Oh, sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Anita, Alberto Meinero’s sister.’
Fuck, she was way too cheerful.
‘Has anyone called you from the Vatican, Anita?’ Scamarcio asked quietly.
‘No, er … has something happened? … To Alberto?’
Scamarcio turned into a side street to escape the noise from the traffic.
‘Anita, I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news.’
There was a sharp intake of breath. Then a long exhale. ‘Oh God, what is it? You’re scaring me …’ She laughed nervously.
‘Alberto was found dead this morning. We believe he was murdered.’
The crying started as a loud shuddering, before it turned into something soft, wet, and broken. Scamarcio closed his eyes. He hated it. It never ever got any easier.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But, why…why? My parents … oh my God, how will I tell them? They’re very old … they won’t be able to take it. It will destroy them.’
‘Do you have someone you can call? Are you alone in the house?’
‘My husband’s at work,’ she stuttered.
‘Is there a neighbour who could come over until he gets back?’
‘Yes, yes, I … but … who would do this? To Alberto?’
‘That is what I’m investigating, Anita. I’d like to come and talk to you as soon as possible. Would that be OK?’
Her crying grew loud again, and she was struggling to speak.
‘Yes … I’ll need to go to my parents … I’ll need to …’ Her voice faded, lost in tears.
‘I’ll look at the trains and call you straight back. I’m so very sorry, Anita.’
He cut the call and stamped out the spent fag he’d been smoking. God, what a mess. The correct procedure would have been to phone the local police and ask them to inform her, but there’d been too much going on. He’d have to make it right now, though. She couldn’t be left alone with that news. He dialled Sartori.
‘I’ll put a call in, get them to send a car,’ he said between loud slurps of something. Scamarcio guessed it was his usual king-size Coke. Sartori might have the makings of a good detective, but there was a risk his body would give in before he got there.
‘I’m glad you called, Scamarcio, because I did a bit of asking around. Well, to be precise, I showed your dead priest’s picture to a few contacts, and somebody recognised him.’
‘Who recognised him?’
‘One of my friends at the Turkish baths on Viale Angelico. Your guy had been in a few times. That may or may not be significant, but, as my friend says, “Anyone coming here knows the kind of clientele they’ll meet.” So, your priest might have been visiting the baths with a purpose, if you get my drift.’
‘I get it, I get it,’ muttered Scamarcio, wishing he didn’t. He needed to head north to Meinero’s sister first thing tomorrow.
‘If you had a brother, would you tell him everything?’ he asked Fiammetta while they were slumped on the sofa watching an irritating documentary about a serial killer. Scamarcio gladly would have chosen anything else, even Wheel of Fortune or that bland show on La7 with Lilli Gruber (the least curious journalist he had ever known), but Fiammetta was engrossed and refused to switch over.
‘Depends on the relationship, I guess. A sister, maybe. But brother and sister is slightly different.’
‘Hmm, I know,’ said Scamarcio, already worrying that Anita Meinero might not have the answers he needed.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing really.’
‘Is it to do with your case?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want to tell me the details?’
‘No, not really.’ He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.
‘It’s not easy having a cop for a partner,’ she said cheerily.
‘You don’t seem too cut up.’
‘You know me, I take things in my stride. And I knew what to expect.’ She fell quiet so she could listen to the breathless narrator. When he’d finished delivering what Scamarcio thought was a particularly crass line of commentary, she said, ‘I guess we should count ourselves lucky that you’re not investigating a serial killer like this bastard. Jesus, that would really screw you up.’
Scamarcio gazed out the window to the night sky beyond. He felt an unfamiliar anxiety move through him, like a beast that had long lain dormant, but was now finally beginning to stir.
15
SCAMARCIO HAD DECIDED TO take the 6.00 am train to Genoa because the connections to Arquata Scrivia were good, and a quick glance at the map had told him that Anita Meinero lived just a few minutes’ walk from the station. At least the journey would give him the chance to study his notes, and perhaps make a few calls. In light of the late conversation with Meinero’s sister, he’d delegated the visit to Borghese’s last Facebook friend to Sartori, filling him in on the possible love triangle. He’d have preferred to have conducted the interview himself, but he knew he had to start using Sartori, and not just for his own selfish ends. If the man was going to develop into a good detective, he had to be given the chance to grow.
Amidst his notes, Scamarcio returned to the question marks he’d scored boxes around. Again, he wondered why, if Amato had called to advise her that the session was over at 3.20 pm, Mrs Borghese had arrived home so much later. Perhaps her father had simply been too ill to leave, but hadn’t one of the priests said she’d been heading back when they called? Had she hit traffic? Scamarcio needed to speak with her again, lay these small doubts to rest.
He glanced up from his papers. They’d finally left the outskirts of Genoa and were passing what looked like a refinery on their left. Winking in the sun were large circular containers with metal tubes running in every direction. A few brightly coloured villas stood lonely on the brows of small hills, empty rolling green all around. He noted that it was a different green here, up north. It was denser and deeper — like the Kodachrome green of a Super 8 film. As he rested his head against the window, the backdrop morphed into rugged cliffs, black and unforgiving. Scamarcio noticed pile after colourful pile of storage containers, many bearing the names ‘Maersk’, ‘Hanjin’, or ‘MSC’. After a few minutes, they passed a car park full of truck cabs, and he guessed that Arquata Scrivia served as a transportation hub between Genoa a
nd the north.
The train slowly rolled into the station, and Scamarcio took in the drab apartment blocks and ragged pylons. The place could not be described as beautiful.
He pulled out the map he’d printed from his computer and started the walk from the station. There was a small fountain and a few benches across the road from where the cars pulled up, and he noticed three or four black men sitting around, apparently idle and bored. They were smartly dressed in clean denim and fashionable trainers, but a few locals were standing some distance away, eyeing them with concern.
This is it, a nutshell tableau of Italy’s immigrant issue, reflected Scamarcio. Boatloads of migrants made the harrowing crossing from Libya, saw their friends, family, babies drown — only to end up somewhere like Arquata Scrivia, where the local population had never seen a black man, and where the chances of finding a job were non-existent. For the life of him, Scamarcio couldn’t understand how the Italian government expected to create a living, a future for these people, if they had nothing to offer them. It was hard enough for the average Italian to find work; there was no slack in the system. Scamarcio had sympathy and compassion for these migrants — everyone deserved the right to a decent life — but he also knew that Italy was the very last place these poor souls would find it. The EU seemed happy to dump the problem firmly in Italy’s backyard. It was just Italy’s hard luck that the peninsula lay thirty miles from Africa and was perceived as the gateway to paradise.
As he walked further up a main road lined with tiled apartment blocks and bars with blacked-out windows, Scamarcio spied another trio of Africans in neon-yellow safety jackets. They were pushing a cleaning cart and seemed to be sweeping the street. At least the local council had found something for these men to do. Maybe he was wrong: maybe the guys on the benches would find work; maybe it would be better than what they’d left behind. But, somehow, he doubted it. Somehow, he’d sensed their disappointment as he’d passed.
He swung a left and then a right and took a road that led to the foot of a steep hill covered in pine trees. On the right were a series of attractive villas, small palms in their gardens. He stopped outside the first of these, checked the address on his piece of paper, and rang the bell. A muffled voice crackled over the intercom.
The Devil Page 10